Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(29)

‘But why are you angry?’

‘Doesn’t murder anger you?’

‘But you’re not angry at that,’ he said thoughtfully, almost kindly. ‘Or at least, not exclusively. There’s something else.’

‘Clever boy. I bet you heard a lot of that at school. What time is it?’

Gamache seemed unfazed by the abrupt change of topic. He looked at his watch.

‘Quarter to five.’

‘I have to go in a few minutes. Appointment.’

‘What happened at the curling?’ Gamache tried again. Lemieux held his breath. He didn’t know why, but this seemed an important moment. The old poet stared at Gamache, her face and figure full of loathing. Gamache simply stared back, his face open and thoughtful and strong.

Ruth Zardo blinked. Literally. It seemed to Lemieux she’d closed her eyes in rage then opened them to a new world. Or at least a new attitude. She took a deep breath and nodded her gray hair. She smiled slightly.

‘You bring out the worst in me, Chief Inspector.’

‘You mean you’re about to be decent?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘My apologies, madame.’ Gamache rose momentarily from his plastic chair and bowed. She inclined her head toward him.

Lemieux wasn’t at all sure what had just happened. He thought perhaps it was some weird Anglo code, a dance of aggression and submission. This rarely happened in francophone encounters, in his limited experience. The French, he felt, were far more open about their feelings. The English? Well, they were devious. Never really knew what they were thinking, never mind feeling.

‘I was in the stands, next to Gabri. The curling had been going on for a while. Em was losing, as I said before. Poor Em always loses. It got so bad she once called her team Be Calm. At some point Gabri poked me in the side. Someone shouted that there’d been an accident.’

Ruth described the scene for them, replaying it in her head. Swaying back and forth, trying to get a clear view of what was causing the commotion. All the bulky parkas and tuques and scarves blocking her view, then the stands clearing as people began shuffling, then walking and finally running toward the crowd gathering near the overturned chair.

Ruth had made her way through, expecting to see Kaye collapsed there, shouting, ‘Fire chief coming through, clear the way.’

Of course, there wasn’t a fire, nor did Ruth expect to find one. Still, she’d learned that most people, while claiming to hate authority, actually yearned for someone to take charge. To tell them what to do.

CC was flat on her back. Dead. Ruth knew that immediately. But she still had to try.

‘Olivier, you do the massage. Peter? Where’s Peter Morrow?’

‘Here, here.’ He was making his way through the crowd, having had to sprint across the lake from the curling rink. ‘What’s happened?’

‘You give her mouth-to-mouth.’ To his credit Peter didn’t hesitate. He fell to his knees beside Olivier, ready to go, both men staring up at Ruth. But there was one more order she had to give.

‘Gabri, find her husband. Clara?’

‘Here.’

‘Find the daughter.’

Then she turned her back on them, certain her orders would be followed, and started counting.

‘Did you have any idea what had happened to her?’ Gamache asked, bringing her back to this world.

‘None.’

Was it his imagination or had her hard eyes wavered? He kept silent for a moment but nothing else came.

‘What happened then?’

‘Billy Williams said he had his truck ready to go and we should put her in. Someone had already called the hospital but it would take twenty minutes for the ambulance to arrive and twenty minutes to get back. This was faster.’

She described the horrific journey to Cowansville and it pretty much tallied with what he’d heard earlier from Peter Morrow.

‘What time is it?’ she demanded.

‘Five to five.’

‘Time to go.’ She got up and led the way down the hall, without looking at them, as though her salvation lay beyond her front door. Agent Lemieux heard clinking and rattling in the closets as their heavy feet passed by. Skeletons, he thought. Or bottles. Or both.

He didn’t like Ruth Zardo and he wondered why the chief seemed to.

‘Out.’ Ruth held open the door and they’d barely gotten their boots on before she was shoving them out with an arm far stronger than he’d have thought.

Gamache reached into his parka pocket and produced not the tuque or mitts Lemieux expected to see, but a book. The chief walked over to the single porch light that split the darkness and placed the book under it for Ruth to see.

‘I found this in Montreal.’

‘You are brilliant. Let me guess. You found it in a bookstore?’

‘Actually, not.’ He decided not to tell her yet.

‘And I suppose you’ve chosen this moment to ask me to sign it?’

‘You’ve already done that. Could you come and look, please?’

Agent Lemieux braced for the acerbic response but none came. She limped over and Gamache opened the slim volume.

‘You stink, love Ruth,’ Ruth read out loud.

‘Who did you give this to?’

‘You expect me to remember what I say in every book I sign?’